


And then there were Six

by lizleenimbus



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angel Wings, Bunker Fic, Cas is flustered, Crack, Destiel - Freeform, Domestic, Fluff, Fluffy, M/M, Seraph!Cas, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Wing Grooming, Wingfic, You Have Been Warned, dean is flustered, very tropey
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-30
Updated: 2020-04-30
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:28:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23929210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lizleenimbus/pseuds/lizleenimbus
Summary: While busying himself with mother-henning, Dean discovers something about Cas that honestly, should have been obvious.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 79
Kudos: 723





	And then there were Six

**Author's Note:**

> Just a really short drabble to provide context to a piece of fanart I created. I'm primarily a visual artist, but the images I make usually have a huge backstory/bunch of head canon context that I typically leave out. This is my attempt at providing some background for this one, which is one of my faves :) Again, I've been told not to say this so much, but I'm a self-conscious writer; it's not my primary means of expression. Please be kind, and apologies in advance for any errors. I can already see the cliches I tend to use and reuse but *shrug*. Anyway, I humbly hope someone enjoys!

“He’s on the roof,” Sam announces from behind his book. He’s got his giraffe gams comfortably parked on the maps table, and only bothers to glance up at Dean insofar as a long-suffering eye roll is capable of doing so.

“What-”

Dean deposits the two coffee mugs he’d carried onto the table, and crosses his arms towards his brother.

“Don’t give me that. You’ve got your ‘ _omg where’s Cas_ ’ face on.” Sam cuts-in, his voice dancing in light mockery.

Dean feels himself flushing three shades darker, and tells himself it’s all righteous indignation. It’s definitely _not_ because Sam is right on the money. (Dammit, is he really that transparent?) He briefly considers giving one mug of joe to Sam, as though that were his plan all along; as though he didn’t know fine well that Sam has actually been drinking some fancy, flowery tea with his breakfasts lately. Before he can decide, his younger brother foils him.

“I heard you bitching at him last night. B’sides, domestic disturbances aside, you’ve kinda had that face on every day since he got cursed anyway,” Sam explains, casually flipping a page. 

“Yeah but-”

“He’s _fine_ , Dean. The curse makes him manifest stuff physically now sure, but he’s still an _angel_. A grown-up one too, by the way.” 

Dean glowers. 

“Yeah, thanks _Samantha_ , I hadn’t noticed.” 

Dean had _definitely_ noticed. He’d _enthusiastically_ noticed about ten years ago, and hadn’t stopped noticing since. That wasn’t the problem. The problem was Cas being reckless at the drop of a hat, even despite his recent and potentially fatal handicap.

“I’m just saying Dean, you’re mother-henning so hard you’re gonna start laying eggs. Cas probably just wants some space. He’s been around since before dinosaurs were just an idea and you’ve been nagging him… _aggressively._ He wasn’t born yesterday, dude.” Then Sam dons that smarmy, all-knowing smirk of his, and Dean knows damn well by now to brace himself. “I mean don’t get me wrong: your coddling is _absolutely_ adorable but-”

“Can it, Sam.” 

“Whatever, jerk. I think it’s sweetthat you’re worried about him,” he says with saccharine enthusiasm.

Dean grumpily snags his coffee cups and hesitates under his brother’s cheeky surveillance, not wanting to give him the satisfaction. He doesn't even extend him the customary _“bitch_ ” response as an olive branch. That's practically an act of treason, but the brat deserves it. Eventually, after puttering in place longer than is strictly natural, he relents to the sibling standoff with a sigh. It’s too goddamned early for Dean to be feeling like he’s been caught with his pants down (not in the fun way), and he’d really like to make an exit. 

“Roof’s that way,” Sam provides helpfully, shit-eating grin solidly in place.

“God just...shut _UP_ , Sam.” 

“JERK,” Sam reaffirms, flipping to the next page as Dean storms off.

Moments later, an echoed “ _bitch_ ” cascades down from on high, peppered by the furious clang of metal stairs. 

Sam snorts.

\-----

As they haven’t had occasion to chase anything particularly speedy lately, Dean takes a moment to both curse his dwindling cardio and catch his breath. For something that’s 75% underground, the bunker sure has all the lung-crunching qualities of a friggin’ lighthouse tower. He pauses on the final landing until he’s breathing like the respectably fit person he was about 15 years ago and, carefully balancing his mugs, gives the creaking door a light shove with his shoulder. It was already ajar. 

It’s blindingly gorgeous outside. Dean blinks for a moment against the mid-morning sun casting a warm glow over the Kansas flatlands below. The air is cool and sweet with Spring blossoms... and probably pollen, which gives him just short of 5 minutes before he starts leaking like a faucet from all of his facial orifices. Still, even histamine-supercharged Dean can appreciate relishing in some daylight and fresh air; the stale, submarine-like depths of the Bunker can sometimes get a little claustrophobic. 

“Cas? Got coffee, y’up here?” he calls. 

A familiar flapping sound, like laundry hung out to dry in a light breeze, draws his attention from the right. 

Dean stumbles and rights himself just in time to catch the plummeting mugs, but he can’t say the same for his jaw. 

Cas turns to offer him his usual muted smile and treads towards him on bare feet. He’s wearing a pair of Dean’s ancient jogging pants -which okay, weird, but a foggy memory of him telling Cas to help himself to whatever he needs does ping in his brain. He’s just never taken Dean up on the offer before. Besides, that’s not even what’s setting Dean’s eyeballs to stun. No, what’s really gone and smacked him right in the windpipe are the _six wings_ which trail in Cas’ wake, floating airily behind his bared torso. _Six_ \- not two - and for a moment, Dean wonders if someone has spiked his coffee. Dean - god help him, is just a mortal man, and he's barely grown accustomed to processing two of those gut-punching things. This dramatic addition seems completely unfair. Castiel now looks the part of the stained-glass Demi-god most humans assume angels are; a vision from mythological text whose presence Dean is definitely unworthy of. It’s like he’s back in that infamous barn all over again; with considerably less stabbing. 

“Hello, Dean.” Castiel greets as per usual, retrieving the mug in Dean’s frozen left hand. It’s the one sporting the cartoon bumble bee. “Thank you for the coffee.” 

Dean says nothing as he relinquishes the drink, and just stares. Stares so hard and googly-eyed that his corneas might as well just roll out a welcome mat for every single allergen in the state. 

“Are you alright?” Cas’ expression immediately knits itself into something somber and worried, which finally compels Dean to speak. He hates making Cas worry; the guy’s default is already set to constipated jack-in-the-box, after all.

“You… your wings,” he tries. 

Cas quirks an eyebrow and glances at them briefly before returning to Dean’s awed expression. 

“...Yes? What about them?”

Dean swallows. 

“Come on Cas, work with me here. Aren’t there _more_ than usual?” 

Cas launches a perplexed, tilty-headed look at him. Dean would usually feel fond at seeing the old, familiar gesture, but he’s too overwhelmed by the feathered spectacle that the angel is being so infuriatingly laissez-faire about. 

“If they’re bothering you I can-”

“NO! They’re gorgeous I-” Dean fails to catch himself, heat flooding his cheeks. “I mean, they’re _awesome_. I ain’t one for math but… I’m just…they’re kinda pulling some Tribbles stunt right now aren't they?"

Cas gapes at him some more, his lip twitching into a light snarl of sheer bewilderment. He can't exactly blame him, Dean's brain has apparently chosen to devolve into geeky babbling and he can't seem to control it.

“I don’t-”

“There are more of them, I mean," Dean clarifies.

Cas’ face brightens in understanding, and suddenly looks appropriately smug for a guy who’s officially half-peacock. 

“Oh. Well, I’m a seraph, Dean.” he explains. “We have _six_ wings.” 

“Yeah, I _KNOW_ that Big Bird,” Dean assures him - he’s no idiot when it comes to angel lore by now - “but you never wear ‘em out, that’s all. I thought it was, I dunno,… a metaphor or something. Like halos and harps and togas, y'know, like lore or whatever.” 

He wills himself to stop the flustered flailing, somehow. It's a near thing. 

“I rotate between the pairs I manifest,” Castiel reveals wryly, “So you might be forgiven for assuming that. Having three pairs out at once is taxing, especially given my current state. But when the sun is out, I have found that it feels… _nice_ , to have the warmth on _all_ of my feathers especially now that they manifest physically.”

As though to demonstrate, he extends said appendages out to their fullest capacity, angling them towards the sun like some sort of giant cormorant while he indulges in a lazy stretch. Dean is briefly enthralled by the buffet of taught golden skin, but miraculously manages to cast his gaze towards the looming wall of glistening black feathers, then back to the angel’s face. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen Castiel so relaxed. It’s a rare and jarring contrast to his usual intensity.

“I was tending to my tomato plant and endeavouring a Spring cleaning of sorts, but then I thought I should take the opportunity to enjoy the weather fully. You and Sam seem to enjoy it, after all, when the occasion presents itself. I thought I would follow your example.” 

Dean smirks at the banality of it all. A sublime, winged vision from the pages of some unknowable, hallowed legend dutifully watering his spindly Charlie-Brown of a tomato plant, while he blows the steam from the filter-coffee in his gas-station bumblebee mug. Gettin’ his tan on. It's utterly ridiculous, but Dean kind of loves it. (And that’s where he very deliberately puts a stop to _that_ thought process.)

“You’re just a regular ole solar panel, huh?” 

“Something like that,” Cas smiles, finally taking a sip of his coffee. Dean tries - not incredibly hard, mind- to ignore the blissful sound the angel always makes at his first daily taste of caffeinated solace. 

And while Dean isn’t one for prodding this hard at something that makes him feel actual feelings, he really can’t help his curiosity. 

“Look, I’m not trying to make you feel like a freakshow here but, aren’t those… y’know, heavy? I mean I _know_ you’re built like a tank but still, even for a solid dude they uhm… they… look uh, hefty.”

Dean prays the coffee will choke him as he chugs at his cup, in quiet, red-faced humiliation.

Cas though, seems pensive.

“Yes, I imagine they are,” he allows vaguely, “but my Grace compensates for their weight on this plane. I suppose I should be thankful for that. The curse could have been worse.” 

They lapse into silence for a while, staring out at the horizon while they enjoy their brew. Cas stands as close as he usually does, despite the tripled forty foot wingspans crowning him. Three wings are carefully angled around Dean’s frame, meticulously careful not to touch him. Dean finds himself sort of wishing they would. He can feel their sumptuous warmth radiating from all around, somewhat like the comforting aura of a fireplace… or a blast furnace really, if angelic strength has anything to do with it. He feels safe and protected, berthed in their shadow. 

“Sam says I’ve been coddling you,” Dean says suddenly. The confession tumbles out of him over the lip of his cup. 

The angel's knowing eyes flicker briefly towards him, but he remains silent as he soon returns to contemplating the tranquil landscape. Dean's grateful for the time to unruffle his own feathers enough to hopefully coax the words out of his clenched throat. 

“Y’know I don’t mean to. And I know I’ve been kind of a hardass, but I just… _worry_ , because of the whole curse thing. And I get you’re an angel and all,” he sputters, “but like it or not, you ain’t exactly used to being vulnerable… And still, you keep taking the same risks because you’re a stubborn sonovabitch Cas, and you know it.” 

_Wow,_ this apology is going well, he thinks sourly. He’s already resorted to quasi-yelling and name-calling. Maybe he oughta really cement his expression of regret with a punch to the jaw. Not like they haven't been _there_ before. 

Cas is the one to break Dean’s grim meanderings when he does turn to look at him. There’s a soft smile pulling at his lips as he thoughtfully cradles the coffee resting at his sternum. This does shit-all to soothe the pounding in Dean’s chest, of course. 

“Takes one to know one, I suppose,” Cas finally says in his usual deadpan, betrayed only by the tiniest grin. “But thank you, Dean.” 

Dean frowns in confusion. 

“Y’don’t gotta thank me, I was…”

“Your concern is obviously well-intended, and it means a lot to me.” is all Cas says, and it shuts Dean up faster than a bad hangover.

Finally, voice pitched low, he manages: 

“I just wanna help. I don’t like not knowing how to, especially in our line of work.” 

“I know, Dean,” Cas replies warmly. “But I promise I’ll be careful.” 

It’s barely satisfactory, but Dean nods all the same as one of the wings gently wraps around his shoulder in an impossibly soft caress. He’s sure they’ll butt heads about this again, but for now, he’s sick of arguing.

After a long moment of silence which surprisingly, grows increasingly comfortable, Dean drains the last of his drink and sets the empty cup on the ledge. 

A moment later, he’s clapping his hands together with a burst of enthusiasm that surprises him, and seems to perplex the angel a little. 

“Okay, so… spring cleaning?” he announces cheerfully, “Sounds like a good idea and frankly, I been meaning to do it for a while. The place could use a good scrub down, it’s a nice day, and we got nothing else going on.” 

He’s already rolling up his sleeves with gusto, delighting in the idea of spending the afternoon outside and being useful with Cas at his side, even if it’s menial physical labour that’s involved. He’s already picturing the satisfaction of cracking a pair of cold beers once they’re done when he notices the angel’s expression. Castiel seems crestfallen. His wings have somehow folded themselves perfectly against the limited real estate of his back and there’s a curiously sheepish expression veiling his features. 

“Oh, that’s….not exactly what I meant when I said that.”

There’s a pang of disappointment that rolls through him as the sweaty, angelic groundskeeping fantasy crumbles, but he resigns himself. 

“Oh. Okay well l’ll just-

“ _I was going to groom my wings._ ” Cas blurts out quickly. He looks uncharacteristically timid.

Dean pauses for a minute, letting that picture sink in. 

“Now that they can manifest physically I’ve found that they require more... _maintenance_ ,” Cas mutters somberly. “It’s rather annoying actually. Though if you’d prefer doing housework, I am not opposed. I would be happy to help; I can attend to them later.” 

It all makes sense of course, but Dean has absolutely no frame of reference for how ‘grooming’ even looks, or works. For the briefest second, his brain conjures a vision of Cas splashing around in a bird bath and he just about loses it right there and then, but manages to swallow down his laughter. Cas looks particularly embarrassed right now, and he figures it’s probably some obscure angel thing around which he should tread lightly. Tentatively, he places a hand on one of the folded wings, calling back Cas’ attention. 

“No, no… let’s stick to these babies if that was your plan. If you think I can help, I’m here, buddy.” 

Cas actually squirms a tiny bit, and while it might be objectively the most adorable thing Dean has ever seen, he releases the wing and is now sort of worried all over again. 

“Hey,” he says gently, “If it’s not cool, we won’t do it, Cas. I don’t want to infringe on your angel modesty or whatever.”

He’s in the middle of an amused smirk when he realizes that’s probably one of the biggest lies he’s ever told - and he’s a prolific liar - but he’s nevertheless devoted to maintaining decorum if need be, for the sake of the angel’s dignity. Dean is a gentleman, after all. Sort of. Cas thankfully, just rolls those big blue eyes at him from above rosy cheeks. 

“It’s not like that, Dean. Well, rather, it _can_ be.…. _personal_ depending on the context, but mostly it’s just, as you would say, a ‘ _shit-ton’_ of work that I wouldn’t want to impose on you.” 

Dean grins at the expression and thinks that Cas isn’t such a bad liar himself. But you can’t bullshit a bullshitter; he can see all three pairs of those beauts slowly unfurling and twitching towards him in anticipation. Besides, how in the hell was the angel planning on doing this all by himself?

“Relax, Feathers. As long as you’re sure I won’t be violating your celestial honor by helping you with this.”

“ _Yes,_ I’m _sure,_ Dean.” Castiel grits. His blush is unmistakably more pronounced now, and Dean is definitely _not_ above having a field day with this information.

“So, you’re absolutely sure that me digging my filthy mud-monkey paws around in those nice shiny feathers wouldn’t sully your precious angel flower or something?”

“Dean...” 

“And what if we end up needing to strap you to Baby’s roof and take you through the car-wash, do we need to perform some sort of ritual first?”

_“Dean.”_

“I mean, we’re already Profoundly Bonded; I don’t want to end up accidentally _Angel-Married_ or something just because I was rootin’ around in your chicken parts…”

 _“You should be so lucky,_ ” Cas mutters, squeezing at the bridge of his nose. 

“What was that?” 

“Dean, I will Profoundly Angel- _Smite_ you if you don’t get the hose right now.” 

“Aww, shucks Cas, I didn’t know you were such a romantic.”

The angel is grinning now, and so is Dean, and he decides not to question where that surge of courage came from. He instead decides that he might actually like flirting with Cas just a little. The exasperated wing-thwack he receives directly to the ass is more than a little encouraging, after all.

Ten minutes later sees Dean appropriately dosed with Claritin, changed into his car-washing shorts and marching straight past Sam and his smug grin. There’s a slight bounce in his step as he takes stairs this time, and the door clanks brightly behind him as he reaches the roof once more. 

Cas greets him with a quiet smile as he plucks his way through the wing folded against his chest. 

Dean fetches the hose and happily gets to work.

  
  



End file.
